


A Romantic New Years Heist

by xel



Category: overwatch
Genre: Also Sombra makes an appearance briefly, F/F, this is self-indulgent fun, which also means I’m not taking criticism on characterization thank you :’)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22052236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xel/pseuds/xel
Summary: Angela needs a little help from Fareeha retrieving some stolen data. Incidentally, they’re also in New York on New Year’s Eve
Relationships: Fareeha "Pharah" Amari/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be just one very long one-shot but it’s going to have to be two chapters because I haven’t finished the second half and I wanted to post this on New Years Eve. So here’s part one, and I’ll finish the second half soon. I know I always say that, but this time it’s different because this time it’s actually mostly written and also I know where it’s going. :’))

It’s New Years in New York. Or a fragmented memory of what New Years once was in New York. The ball is gone. The rod held above Times Square, twinkling with a million lights, is little more than shrapnel now; busted remains of the NYC omnic uprising. 

The bright-light screens are gone, mostly, too, what’s left flicker static around dead pixels. A few smaller screens advertise “unity” as a concept during these hard times; one offers a “very good price” on a male enhancement supplement. 

There’s a rat dragging a shish kebab away from a street vendor and vaguely towards an open manhole. 

Fareeha tucks her hands into her coat pockets to stave off the cool evening air and looks around for the forth time since arriving, but who she is looking for still hasn’t arrived. 

Sighing, she makes her way to a set of bleachers, crumbling with disuse, and finds herself a seat on one of the more stable-looking bits. Around her, the disinterested huddled masses move along. 

This is Fareeha’s first time in New York City.

She recalls her mother recounting her time visiting this place during her UN years of travel; how she said it drew in all walks of life from all over, as a beacon of what the United States wanted the world to believe it could offer. Fareeha remembers Ana’s stories, told to her at their home, between her mother’s deployments, and guesses, given those stories, that in that era, it must have been something truly remarkable. 

It’s hard to picture now though what that would look like, when the sky is coated in the not-yet settled dust of bombs and debris, when the residents keep their distance and only come into the streets, bent in on themselves, to buy groceries.

Why has Angela Ziegler asked to meet here, Fareeha wonders. 

To Fareeha’s knowledge, Angela has mostly been operating out of the Eastern Hemisphere, as Fareeha has. Why cross an ocean to meet a woman you haven’t spoken to in ten years? 

But then, Fareeha really isn’t in a position to ask the question. After all, she had come, hadn’t she? She didn’t have to. 

Fareeha yawns and rubs her eyes and tries not to think too hard about her own rationale. She’s on leave and not obliged to any job at the moment; she’s free to do as she pleases.

Angela had joked with Fareeha a life time ago about her serious nature. So practical. 

Fareeha laughs to herself. How would one describe a person who, on a whim, flew across the world to a disgraced city to see a near-stranger at the end of a decade? Surely not practical.

Someone sits beside Fareeha. 

The metal grinds unpleasantly under more weight after so long without any.

“Fareeha Amari,” says a woman. Fareeha knows it is Angela, even as she opens her eyes to confirm.

She’s older, to no one’s surprise, they both are, but there’s still a sparkle in her blue, blue eyes. She’s dressed in white: a white peacoat, dark pants. The skin under her eyes is purple-black from exhaustion. Fareeha notes that that has not changed about her.

She’s smiling.

Fareeha never thought much of Angela growing up. Not out of malice, just indifference, but she finds herself breathless now in the other woman’s presence. Angela hasn’t done anything or said anything, she just has that look about her: the kind that steals air from the lungs without meaning to.

“So you do remember me,” Fareeha responds, there’s a chill in her throatlike taking a deep breath of cool air around mint in the cool mornin.

Unsure of what to do, Fareeha extends a gloved hand for the other woman to shake. Angela laughs, and does, her grip is firm, her hands warm despite the layers.

“Yours is not a face anyone is likely to forget,” Angela says. “Which, unfortunately, is in direct conflict with why I’ve asked you to meet me. Though... I think we’ll manage all the same.” She smiles, releasing Fareeha from her grip. 

“And why did you ask me to meet you here, Angela?” Fareeha hopes she doesn’t come off rude, she doesn’t mean it to be that way. But she is curious. “Until last month, I wasn’t aware you even knew where I was.”

“I had to search a bit,” Angela tells her, her tone is good-humored. Fareeha is glad, at least, that a little effort was involved. After a pause Angela continues: “I need help.”

“What with?” Fareeha probes.

Angela glances around them. The streets are mostly empty, but they’re sat among the crossroads, visible to all, and Fareeha can tell this makes Angela uncomfortable. 

“Let’s find somewhere a little less open,” says Angela, smiling, “and warmer.”

Angela deftly dismounts from the bleachers and Fareeha follows behind, bracing herself against the decrepit structure. Fareeha is sure-footed, she always has been, and she’s not inelegant, but it does not escape her noticed that next to her, Angela seems to almost glide back to the ground.

* * *

Angela leads Fareeha to a deli quite literally set up in a hole blasted into the wall of a building a few blocks out of Times Square.

It’s an entrance into a long hallway with a meat counter at the front and two dinky tables set up under exposed lights at the end. Including Fareeha and Angela, three individuals are present. 

The third is the deli owner, an omnic composed prominently of miss-matches components, wearing a smock and sporting a poorly drawn pencil mustache on their grimy face plate.

They greet Angela and Fareeha with a friendly wave and a cordial “hello”.

Angela places an order for two chicken panini and coffees and leads Fareeha to the furthest of the tables.

It feels dark, intimate. The buzz of the lightbulb swaying above them provides most of the ambient noise in the establishment. Fareeha grabs the bulb to halt its movement. It’s mindless, an instinctive action, but Angela watches her like the action is indicative of something more. Fareeha worries she has given something of herself away. 

“So you want my help?” Fareeha says, her voice low. 

“I said need,” says Angela, smiling. “And yes. But I think a little background might be helpful.” Angela looks pointedly at her, so Fareeha nods her understanding and asks her to go ahead. 

“I’ve been in the Middle East these past few years on humanitarian work.”

“Jesse mentioned that’s where you went after Overwatch,” Fareeha says. 

“Yes. Towards the end of it, I felt like my ethics and those of Overwatch as an entity had grown incompatible. As we acquired new talent and tensions in omnic relations grew high globally, it became noticeably militaristic; when I was recruited, I thought we were working towards creating a better world.” Angela looks at Fareeha and Fareeha cannot stand to look back for very long. 

By the time Fareeha had set her aspirations on Overwatch, she was hoping to join specifically as a soldier. She is not dumb enough or manipulative enough to believe that Angela does not know that, or that she can pretend to convince the woman otherwise. She wonders if Angela is disappointed in her. She is surprised to find that she cares.

Angela continues: “I was given funding and was not required to patent my work under Overwatch, which is an offer I hadn’t received before or since. When it disbanded, I couldn’t go back to another organization; I worried about what they might ask of me... so I set out on my own, to further my research and provide aid where I could, in the way I thought was best.”

“That’s noble,” says Fareeha, sincerely.

“Well, thank you,” Angela replies. She smiles a coy, flattered smile. “Anyway, things were well enough until recently.” And then she stops speaking, looking contemplatively to the entrance of the deli. Fareeha knows that when she begins speaking again, the meat of the matter will be the topic. 

The omnic deli owner brings them their sandwiches and coffees as Fareeha watches; as Angela bites her inner cheek. 

“Please tell me if you enjoy,” says the omnic. Fareeha nods in the friendly, dismissive way patrons often respond to a statement like that, to acknowledge that it has been said and heard. “No,” says the omnic, they’re animatronic voice is quite earnest, “you must actually tell me. I have no tastebuds.” Angela and Fareeha exchange a glance and Angela laughs softly to herself.

Fareeha eyes to omnic, then her sandwich, and takes a bite. 

It’s not bad, a bit flavorless. 

“It’s good,” Fareeha says, “I would have used pepper jack for the cheese.” 

“Thank you for your feedback,” says the omnic, “with this, I am one step closer to being the best deli in this neighborhood.” From her brief view when entering, Fareeha cannot recall is there was a single other deli in line of sight of this place. She mostly recalls ruble and ruin. She chooses not to mention this as the omnic leaves.

Fareeha digs into her food.

“There’s something I’ve been working on,” says Angela, when Fareeha goes to take another bite. Angela places her chin in the palm of her hand, her elbow flat on the table, and covers her mouth for a moment, as though she does not want to say what she next does: “A total revival procedure ... to be used only in dire situations.”

Fareeha feels her throat go dry around the bite she has taken. She knows a little about this technology. 

“I started the research with Overwatch,” Angela continues, looking guarded. “The look in your eye tells me you’ve read about it. Blackwatch had access to my files back then and it was a variant of my incomplete work that Moira used to make Gabriel Reyes what he is today.” Angela appears haunted, even as she tells Fareeha this. “For a long, long time, I did not dare to touch the subject again. But... and Fareeha, please understand, I ... I have seen so much suffering,” Fareeha wonders if Angela is asking her forgiveness, nothing about the way Angela regards her as she speaks makes Fareeha think she feels remorse, at least in this endeavor, and Fareeha isn’t upset by the revelation. Shocked, maybe, but Angela Ziegler does not strike her as a thoughtless woman, incapable of understanding the ramification of her actions. “I finished the research last year.”

“That’s incredible,” says Fareeha, because it is, and because she doesn’t know what else to say in the face of this impossibility. She feels a bit paralyzed. “You’re talking about bringing people back to life.” 

Angela nods.

“In a limited capacity, yes. The brain can survive for a few minutes regardless of what has happened to the body, even when that person appears to have already died. This technology, it heals everything so quickly, almost instantly, that as long as it is within those few minutes, it is accurate to say it would be bringing someone back to life.” Angela catches Fareeha’s eye. “And it was stolen.” 

Fareeha exhales slowly.

“That’s not good,” she says. 

“A bit of an understatement,” Angela agrees. “But you’re correct.” It’s very bad. “My files were hacked while I was in Iraq.”

“By who?” 

“I’m not sure. The hacker I reach out to after it happened couldn’t give me a name. They could only give me an address.”

“Is that address here?” Fareeha asks.

“Yes,” says Angela.

“And you asked me here to help find the data?” 

“Yes,” says Angela. 

“Why?” Asks Fareeha. 

“I could not think of anyone less likely to agree for selfish reasons.”

“I’m not sure what it says about the company you keep that your best bet was a woman you haven’t spoken to in a decade,” says Fareeha, she pauses for a moment, and then grins. “But I’m flattered.”

Angela laughs, she reaches across the table and places a hand over one of Fareeha’s.

“Please help me,” she says, not for the first time. Fareeha already knows her answer, but she pushes on.

“Your hacker friend can’t help?”

“Conflict of interest.”

“You trust this intel of someone you know to be working with your target?”

“With my life,” smiles Angela, “if you must know.” 

Fareeha finds herself all of the sudden envious of the way Angela looks when she speaks of this unknown person who does unscrupulous things. Vaguely, she also finds herself wondering if that’s the type of person Angela is interested in. 

That’s not who Fareeha has ever been.

Before Fareeha can quite make sense of what it is she is agreeing to, she has. 

“Alright,” Fareeha says, “where do we begin?”


	2. Chapter 2

Their target is a theatre on Broadway. The theatre is closed - all of them are - looted with graffitied show signs and broken glass. 

Fareeha grabs Angela’s forearm and hauls her up next to her on the fire escape. It’s a bit shaky and Fareeha doesn’t appreciate the reminder that she’s a little out of shape these days after so long off-duty, but as far as Wednesday nights go, it’s turning into an interesting one. Angela seems to have complete faith in her, which is nice, and she walks up the brick work as best she can to minimize the dead weight of pulling a fully grown woman against where gravity prefer she be. 

“Ms. Amari, you continue to impress,” says Angela, as she finds her footing. 

Fareeha chuckles. 

“I don’t think anyone has called me ms. Amari since school,” she shakes out her hand and flexes her fingers against the strain and grins at Angela when they catch one another’s eye.

Below them, people continue to move about; no one seems concerned about their antics. Fareeha notes with some interest that although it was near-empty but an hour ago, Times Square is gaining a bit of traction. Not nearly what it supposedly used to be, (blocks and blocks of people crowded for days) but in the distance there are little firework displays peppering the ground in preparation. Fareeha has lost track of time, but it must be getting close to midnight. 

If these people do celebrate, the noise may be a convenient distraction. When Fareeha turns to point this out to Angela, the other woman winks.

“Ms. Ziegler, you continue to surprise,” Fareeha mimics in response. 

“Hard to believe the romantic setting wasn’t the only benefit to doing this on New Year’s Eve, hm?”

Angela guides them to a broken-in window and, wrapping her sleeve around her hand and wrist, Fareeha clears aware the remaining shards so they can use it to get in. 

“Careful doctor, if you keep speaking like that, I might begin to think you’re flirting with me.”

“You’re an investigator in Egypt now, aren’t you? Intuit what you will and let me know what conclusion you draw.” Angela smiles.

Placing a finger to her lips in a gesture to quiet down, Angela then slips through the window. 

Fareeha doesn’t have the time she’s like to make sense of that invitation as she follows.

It’s mostly dark inside. The exit signs glow an ominous red off grimy, beige walls, and everything smells faintly of mildew. They’re in the second floor foyer. The last time Fareeha was in a theater, it was of the holo movie variety and even being in working order, that didn’t hold a candle to the ambiance of this now-decrepit place.

It’s gilded in golds and reds. 

It feels a little romantic, honestly. 

Fareeha watches her as Angela steps lightly around debris and yet more glass, this apparently from broken bottles of alcohol thrown over the bar. She withdrawals a tablet from the small satchel Fareeha had until now assumed was her purse and after messing with it for a moment, waves Fareeha over to come take a look. 

Wordlessly, Fareeha does. 

“This is a map of this building,” Angela whispers, letting Fareeha take a look at her tablet. She points to a couple of sections on the map. “And these highlighted parts are places where computer processing is occurring. Sombra couldn’t find my research data remotely so our best bet is probably this console,” Angela points to one of the highlighted sections, it sticks out as being in green, “because it’s the only one not connected to the global network.”

Fareeha has other questions, but the first one out of her mouth is a confused: “Sombra?”

“My hacker friend,” Angela clarifies.

“Are you certain this Sombra couldn’t help you? That’s a lot of information from someone claiming a conflict of interest.”

“A hacker would need to be here to hack the off-line console.”

“Angela,” says Fareeha, putting together the pieces of an increasingly bizarre puzzle and offering her a confused brow, “you do know I’m not a hacker, don’t you? Because it is beginning to sound like you brought me along to hack into this computer.”

“Well, when I looked you up, the results indicated you helped program the Raptora units? Isn’t it broadly the same sort of thing? You know, writing code?”

Fareeha blinks. It hadn’t occurred to her that Angela expected anything more of her for this escapade than glorified bodyguard duties. (How much of her life does Angela know about, Fareeha wonders, how much did she learn.)

Fareeha’s background in engineering required a base-level understanding of programming which grew into a well-rounded understanding over the course of many, many years, but...

“Programming and hacking aren’t the same...” 

A door down the way creaks open on un-oiled hinges, drawing both Angela and Fareeha’s attention. A moment later, two voices fill the area.

Angela points to a door. 

“We’ll improvise,” She says and slips through it into the auditorium. Fareeha, delayed, follows.

They find themselves crouched between a row of chairs as Angela maps their next course of action. Fareeha sits on her haunches and meditatively focuses on a piece of very, very dry gum.

“How do you know that your research hasn’t been printed out or saved in multiple locations?” Fareeha asks quietly, her eyes flicker to Angela very briefly and it is enough to steal her breath. 

In the dark and the quiet Angela’s face is cast in cool blue by the light of her tablet. She looks unearthly with the glow. Fareeha cannot help but to think she is beautiful, and feels a bit ashamed of herself for doing so. 

Angela had been a colleague of Ana’s and Fareeha recalls moments where Ana spoke of Angela with such pride Fareeha wondered who this woman was, to steal the affection Fareeha had spent so much of her youth working to obtain. Fareeha had only seldom met Angela when Overwatch was at its height, first as a girl, and then towards the end, in her early 20s, and none of those times had Fareeha cared to interact with the doctor. The trajectory of their ambitions had them headed different places, and perhaps it was a bit of jealousy that swayed Fareeha from instigating any sort of pleasantry between them when they had met, briefly. As a result, Fareeha cannot recall if Angela was always this way: always a little coy, always a little beautiful, always a little reckless. Could they have been friends all this time if she’d been a little more open to the possibility? Would Angela have dragged her along for escapades like this if they had been? It seems frivolous to wonder. 

“Sombra has been keeping track of the movement of data since she found where it went, and that happened within minutes of the breach so I doubt they’ll have transferred it without her knowing. As for printing,” Angela’s eyes flicker to meet Fareeha’s and Fareeha cannot stand to hold the contact, “it can’t be printed. It’s an AI.”

It is not the most interesting thing that Angela has said but Fareeha finds herself saying “she?” Without meaning to. Her eyes are glued on the stage, looking for any signs of life, and the word flows out with little thought.

“What?”

Fareeha catches herself, clarifying: “Sorry, you said ‘she’ just now when referring to Sombra. Previously, you hadn’t been using a gender.”

“Oh,” says Angela, and Fareeha turns back just in time to see her blush. “Perceptive.”

Fareeha smiles. “An important skill in my line of work.” When Angela doesn’t immediately respond, Fareeha feels disappointed for reasons unexplored and decided to shift the conversations. “An AI that can be used to bring people back to life, that’s quite the feat.”

Angela relaxes. 

“Thank you,” she says, and does not elaborate, but she does offer Fareeha a sincere turn of the lips that makes Fareeha’s heartbeat off kilter. 

“We should get started then,” Fareeha says. Angela nods.

There are, it turns out, quite a lot of guards ambling about the building, but none that seem particularly concerned about intruders. As a result, Fareeha and Angela are able to maneuver around bodies by ducking under chairs, bars, and discarded equipment as they weave their way down to the orchestra pit.

Angela grabs Fareeha’s hand at one point and does not let it go as she guides them to that destination. 

It feels a little out of place but in a way Fareeha likes. It feels a bit like the whole evening is running parallel to her life. Her work and her goals and what she wants all fall on a linear path with very little deviation and Fareeha considers her experiences interesting, but not particularly exciting. 

This evening, this event, everything about her time in New York feels like it exists on a feather blowing in the wind: truly anything is possible at this point. 

It’s not Fareeha’s nature to relax into the unexpected, but with Angela beside her and so certain of what is happening around them, it doesn’t seem as frightening as it has in the past.

They slip into the orchestra pit. The door clicks quietly above them as they descend.

Angela touches down first, Fareeha seconds after her.

The small room is filled to bursting with monitors, emitting a dull blue-light glow and heating up the small space to impossibly uncomfortable temperatures. 

There are also two men in here, and they noticed Fareeha and Angela immediately.

“We’ve got company,” says one, into a piece in his ear.

Angela releases Fareeha’s hand.

”Scheiße,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is this so long?!
> 
> Next chapter, Fareeha and Angela make a daring escape and the clock strikes midnight.


End file.
